


wyd?

by rosegoldwriting



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Canon Compliant, Food, Frogs, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Out, osamu sexy tm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26132470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegoldwriting/pseuds/rosegoldwriting
Summary: Kiyoomi doesn’t mean to make a ritual of it. It just kind of happens. (a study in wanting)
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 28
Kudos: 291
Collections: 🐶🍙 omigiri fanfic collection





	wyd?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitcassiachan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitcassiachan/gifts).



> hi this is for kit whose brainrot finally got me to publish something!! thank u kit osaomi queen i owe u my life and by my life i mean an osaomi fic which. here it is. its been a long time coming 
> 
> this fic has a lot of food mentions and food eating, so be wary of that. also some heavy petting

Kiyoomi is not a fan of locker rooms. 

He’s not a fan for the obvious reasons: they’re dirty and crowded and full of boys who think that just because you hit balls around together they can slap you on the ass. 

The worst thing about locker rooms, though- 

“I’m sorry, Sakusa-san!” squawks Masuda, tilted in a deep bow. He’s a first year setter who doesn’t get the sets quite close enough to the net to be a starting player. Coach had taken him out for a test run today, and Kiyoomi had taken too long trying to figure out his tosses that he’d missed a set completely.

“What are you apologizing for? It was my fault,” Kiyoomi sighs, which is true. Kiyoomi doesn’t lie about volleyball. He doesn’t lie about anything, really. 

“Right,” Matsuda grimaces, rising from his bow. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, Matsuda-kun,” says Sato, a third year middle blocker. He slaps a hand on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “You’ll get used to Sakusa.” 

Kiyoomi stiffens. Sato flinches, pulls his hand away so quickly that he nearly smacks himself in the face. “Sorry,” he says, and Kiyoomi has to fight the urge to climb into his locker and stay there forever so he never has to hear that word again. Instead, he slings his bag over his shoulder, snaps a mask around his ears, and leaves without a word. 

Kiyoomi is not a fan of locker rooms. They’re dirty and crowded and they’re always accompanied by an endless litany of _sorry, sorry, sorry._

He’s halfway out of the gym, halfway out of locker room hell, when his phone rings. 

“Heyyy Sakkun,” croons Kuroo Tetsurou as soon as the call connects. “You wanna get drunk tonight?” 

Kiyoomi does want to get drunk. He’s not sure he wants to get drunk with Kuroo Tetsurou, though. “Why, so you can ditch me after an hour for better company?” he asks.

“You’re great company,” Kuroo says. “Two hours at least.”

“Mhm.”

He hears Kuroo’s deep sigh through the receiver. “Do you want to get drunk or not?”

To which Kiyoomi answers, “Desperately,” because who is he kidding?

** Kuroo Tetsurou  **

**I hate you. < **

**Where did you go <**

**> ooo you wanna kiss me so bad**

It’s a record breaking forty-five minutes before he is ditched for better company, and Kiyoomi decides he does not want to be here anymore. 

He’s starting to feel tipsy, thankfully, but he’s still stuck in a crowded apartment full of careless drunk people, where the only White Claw flavor left was watermelon, and now Miya Osamu won’t stop fucking looking at him. 

There’s no way the eye contact is accidental at this point. Even the girl Miya is talking to (or who is talking to Miya, more accurately) keeps looking back at Kiyoomi, as if wondering what about the angry curly-haired guy in the corner has captured Miya’s attention so intensely.

He thinks that glaring at the man will make him stop flicking his eyes towards Kiyoomi’s corner every few seconds, so he tries it. The glaring just makes Miya smile and give a nod of goodbye to the girl, as if Kiyoomi's glare was some kind of invitation. 

“What are ya doin’ all the way over here?” Miya asks as he approaches. 

“I don’t like crowds,” Kiyoomi says. 

“I remember that about ya,” Miya says. “You remember me?”

Kiyoomi remembers the last time he saw the man, celebrating a win against Itachiyama in the finals of the 2014 Spring High National Tournament. He was smiling then, Kiyoomi remembers. He remembers the uncharacteristic grin as vividly as he remembers the twin brother’s uncharacteristic snotty tears.

His hair is dark now, and the natural color makes him look much older though it’s only been a few years since they last met. And his retirement from volleyball certainly hasn’t diminished his figure.

“I do,” he says. “Miya.” 

Miya waves him off. “Osamu is fine. I don’t remember a day in my life bein’ called Miya.” 

“Osamu, then,” Kiyoomi says. He takes a swig of his drink, swishes it around in his mouth for a moment. 

Osamu doesn’t leave. “Standin’ around in a corner like this seems like a waste of a night.”

“If it’s a waste of a night, then why are you here?” Kiyoomi scoffs. 

“Because you’re hot,” Osamu says. 

Kiyoomi feels his drink catch at the back of his throat as he sputters out a shocked, “ _What?_ ”

“You’re hot,” Osamu repeats with a shrug. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who doesn’t know they’re hot.”

“No- that's not… I know that I’m-” Kiyoomi cuts himself off with a cough, throat still raw from nearly suffocating himself with White Claw. “Jesus.”

Osamu, Kiyoomi notices, is laughing now. He also notices that it’s the first time he’s seen Osamu outside of a volleyball gym and that his t-shirt is a little too tight around the shoulders. He wonders how Osamu has the audacity to call him hot when he’s here looking like _that._

Osamu’s laugh tapers out, but Kiyoomi is still noticing things, like how Osamu approached him like he knows exactly what he wants, and that makes Kiyoomi burn. 

“As I was sayin’,” Osamu says, running a hand through dark hair. “Standin’ around in the corner seems like a waste of a night. You wanna get out of here?” 

“I don’t do hookups,” Kiyoomi says, because he doesn’t. Or at least, he never has. 

Osamu smiles. Again. “Yeah, I figured. I was thinkin’ more along the lines of makin’ you somethin’ to eat.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to be here, and Osamu’s hair looks nice pushed back like that, so he says yes. 

** Kuroo Tetsurou  **

**M leavign <**

**> make good choices**

It’s nearing four in the morning when Osamu sits him down at the counter of his bigass kitchen and starts to brew a pot of green tea. Kiyoomi is still nursing his god awful watermelon White Claw because he has a fucking complex about finishing things as Osamu rolls up his shirt sleeves and turns on the faucet. 

Kiyoomi can’t tear his eyes away from the movement of Osamu’s hands. Pumping soap, working up a lather, rubbing palm to palm to backs of hands to backs of fingers. It’s mesmerizing.

He realizes he’s been watching Osamu wash his hands in complete silence and says, “I didn’t know you were studying here.”

Osamu smiles, shutting off the water. “I knew you were,” he says. “Volleyball star.”

And for whatever reason, that makes butterflies or something more violent sprout up in Kiyoomi’s stomach. “What are you studying?” he asks before he can ask something stupid like, _how do you afford this giantass apartment and it smells so fucking good in here do you always wash your hands for twenty seconds or is it just because I’m here?_

“Business management,” Osamu says, and as if sensing Kiyoomi’s incoming eyeroll, he quickly adds, “I know, I know. Ya don’t need to say anythin’.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Kiyoomi says, which is technically true. He eyeroll would have spoken for itself. 

“I’m plannin’ on openin’ a restaurant, so I figured I should learn how to run it,” Osamu says, pulling tupperwares out of his refrigerator. “What about you?”

He blanks, of course. “I’m not opening a restaurant.” 

Osamu laughs, putting a tupperware in the microwave. There’s a faint, rhythmic _beep beep beep_ as he starts the timer. “No, I mean like- what are you studyin’?” 

“Oh,” Kiyoomi says over the drone of the microwave. “Philosophy.”

“Really?” 

“Why would I lie about that.”

“I don’t know,” Osamu says. “It makes sense now that I think about it.”

Osamu stops the microwave before it can go off. Kiyoomi can’t help but be annoyed by the _0:01_ that’s left on the microwave display. 

“So what’s your favorite philosophy?” Osamu asks, grabbing two bowls from the dishwasher.

“What?” Kiyoomi asks, and he wonders why having an intelligible conversation is so fucking hard all of the sudden. 

“Well there’s lotsa types right?” Osamu asks. “So which one do you like?”

“Um,” Kiyoomi answers. “I like nihilism.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“I get worked up about things. It’s a nice reminder that nothing really matters in the long run,” Kiyoomi says. “Since we all die, that is.”

“I guess that is nice,” Osamu laughs. 

“You laugh so much,” Kiyoomi says, the words slipping out without him meaning to, “and smile.”

“I think you’re a little drunk,” Osamu says, laughing again. Kiyoomi wonders if he always laughs this much, or if he’s a little drunk too. 

Osamu begins scooping rice out of a rice cooker that Kiyoomi barely realizes has been filled with warm rice this whole time. 

“Do you always take people home to feed them?” he asks.

“Well, I figured I’d be hungry when I got back,” Osamu says, looking almost embarrassed. “I don’t usually make a habit of it.” 

He pours tea over the mound of rice in one of the bowls and carefully breaks the salmon he had warmed in the microwave over top. He adds a few more toppings before presenting the bowl to Kiyoomi. “Itadakimasu,” he says with a smile, and Kiyoomi repeats it with a murmur.

He takes a bite. It’s amazing. 

“This is really good,” he says when he sees Osamu watching him with hopeful eyes. “I think your shop will do well.” 

“It’s goin’ to be an onigiri shop,” Osamu says with a satisfied smile, dishing up a bowl of his own. “I’ll hafta make some for you next time. What filling do ya like?” 

His usual excuse is at the edge of his teeth- he doesn’t eat onigiri made by other people, he doesn’t like the all the touching involved- but he thinks of how carefully Osamu prepared this ochazuke for him and his smile as he promised Kiyoomi a _next time_ , and he finds that there’s no room for anything that disgusts him here. 

“Umeboshi,” he says.

** XXX-XXXX-XXXX  **

**> this is osamu**

**> thanks for coming over, i had fun**

**Thakn you for thefood. <**

**I hd fun too <**

Kiyoomi politely declines Osamu’s offer to spend the night ( _I’ll even sleep on the couch, ya won’t hafta even breathe the same air as me_ ) and crawls into his own bed at six in the morning, stomach full and eyes heavy.

Kuroo is asleep on the other side of the room, head buried beneath his pillow for some reason. It’s not like Kiyoomi has any right to comment on anyone else’s weird habits. 

He’s out as soon as his head touches the pillow. It feels like only seconds later when he’s being woken with Kuroo’s pillow to the face. 

“It’s noon,” Kuroo says, thrusting a cup of condensated iced coffee into Kiyoomi’s face. Bright afternoon sunshine filters in through the window. “I didn’t know you could physically sleep in this long.” 

Kiyoomi says nothing, just takes the coffee with a huff of grateful air. 

“Just trying to secure my position as the better roommate,” Kuroo says because he’s a perceptive bastard that’s figured out all of Kiyoomi’s huffs of air. “Y’know, since you ditched me last night. Speaking of-” Kiyoomi groans. “Did you go home with somebody?”

Kiyoomi sucks a long sip of coffee up his straw, staring intently at his blanket. There’s a thread coming loose. “Miya Osamu,” he murmurs.

Kuroo has retreated back to his desk. His laptop is open, playing a volleyball game. “What?” 

“Ugh,” Kiyoomi groans again. “Miya Osamu, okay?” 

“You had sex with Miya Osamu?” Kuroo asks, slamming his own cup of coffee onto his desk. “ _Fuck,_ you know have to marry him now, right?”

“We didn’t have sex,” Kiyoomi mumbles. 

“Wait, seriously? A Miya twin? And you didn’t put out?”

“He didn’t ask me to,” Kiyoomi grits out. “What are you watching?”

“Falcons versus Jackals,” Kuroo says. “You wanna watch?”

Kiyoomi slides out of bed and pulls up his desk chair. Kuroo tilts the screen towards him.

It’s the first set. Falcons 9, Jackals 10. 

Miya Atsumu is serving. Kiyoomi remembers his powerful serves, remembers his powerful presence as he commanded complete silence on the court. Even Motoya would occasionally struggle to pick up a Miya serve. 

Kiyoomi wonders vaguely if Osamu is watching this game too. Maybe it’s playing in the background while he makes lunch, or washes the dishes. He wonders, much less vaguel, why he cares what Osamu is doing right now.

The serve is out. Miya’s fists clench in frustration as Bokuto Koutarou smacks him on the back in support. Kuroo laughs at the distress on Miya’s face.

“Does your friend enjoy playing for the Jackals?” Kiyoomi asks. 

“Bokuto?” Kuroo prompts. Kiyoomi nods. “He loves it. The guy was made to go pro.”

Kiyoomi hums, watches as Inunaki Shion digs a deadly serve from Ojiro Aran. 

“You think you’d want to play for them?” Kuroo asks. 

Kiyoomi rubs a finger against his wrist. Inunaki’s receive soars nicely towards Miya, who sends it up to Barnes. He remembers hitting those sets at Youth Camp years ago, remembers how Miya always put them right in the palm of his hand. _"People who can't hit my tosses are nothin' but scrubs."_

His mind wanders to the card shoved deep into his desk drawers. 

_MSBY Black Jackals_

_XX-XXXX-XXXX_

_recruitment@jackals.co.jp_

“I’m not sure,” he says. Barnes blows the ball right past the block. Miya Atsumu blows a kiss to the crowd. 

** Miya Osamu  **

**> anyways wyd **

**What <**

**> what are you doing **

**Like right now? <**

**> yes like right now **

**> u know what nvm **

**> come over **

**I’m at practice <**

**> after **

**> i’ve got umeboshi**

**Fine. <**

True to his word, when Kiyoomi comes over, Osamu is moulding rice around umeboshi filling. 

It’s different being there sober. He still sits at the counter and wonders how Osamu affords his giantass apartment, still thinks it smells good, still gets distracted watching the careful ministrations of Osamu’s hands. Okay, so maybe it's not that different. Kiyoomi does feel a lot less likely to run his mouth, though. 

Osamu plates the onigiri when he’s finished, narrating the process like he’s a chef on some cooking show called Chopped. “Chef Sakusa,” he says, presenting the plate to Kiyoomi. “Thoughts?”

“It’s great,” Kiyoomi says. Osamu takes his place next to Kiyoomi with his own plate of onigiri and tells him he’d be a bad Chopped judge. Kiyoomi doesn’t take it personally. 

After a few minutes of chewing in silence, Osamu turns to him and asks, “Why didn’t ya go pro right away?” because he doesn’t tiptoe around Kiyoomi. “You’re good enough.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Kiyoomi snaps back because he doesn’t tiptoe around anyone. 

“Because I didn’t want to,” Osamu says, which Kiyoomi already knew. He heard from Motoya who heard from Suna Rintarou that breaking that news to his brother wasn’t pretty. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ll even finish my degree. I know what I want. I want to own an onigiri shop.”

“Well, what if something happens to you? Or the shop?” 

“Such a pessimist, Sakusa.”

“A realist.”

Osamu thinks for a moment, flicking pieces of rice across the table absently. “Well, we all die, so does it really matter in the long run?”

Kiyoomi wonders if he should laugh, but Osamu isn’t laughing, so he doesn’t. He probably wouldn’t have laughed anyway. “Well,” he says instead. “If your onigiri taste anything like this, I don’t think you’ll need to worry about it.” 

They eat in silence for a few more minutes, but Osamu seems hellbent on filling the silence at all times. Kiyoomi wonders if he’s compensating for something. 

“What do ya like about me?” Osamu asks.

The onigiri Kiyoomi is clutching nearly slips from his hands. “I’m not answering that.”

“C’mon, Sakusa, let’s flirt a little bit. What do ya like about me?”

“I’m not sure why you’re under the impression that I like anything about you,” Kiyoomi says, immediately regretting the sharp words. But Osamu just laughs. 

“You’re meaner when you’re sober,” he says. “I’ll go first then. I like your hair.”

“This is dumb,” Kiyoomi says because being a brat seems like a better option than facing whatever is prickling warm beneath his skin. But he continues, “I like your hair too.”

“Ya can’t copy me. That’s cheatin’.”

“I like it dark instead of whatever the hell it was in high school.”

“Now you’re insultin’ me. You’re bad at this.”

Now Kiyoomi is smiling too. Osamu tells him his blush is pretty. He tries to shift his expression into a glare instead, but it doesn’t reach his chest like it normally does. He’s not sure it even reaches his eyes now that Osamu is laughing again. 

Osamu is all smiles, Kiyoomi has noticed. He’s so different from the deadpan boy he met in high school. Osamu makes happiness look easy. He makes it look easy to leave things behind, easy to go after what he wants, to go after what will make him happy.

When the night is over, Osamu walks him to the door. 

Osamu is honest. Kiyoomi is honest too, brutally so, but not about things like this. He thinks he could try. 

He clears his throat. “I like that you don’t pity me.”

Osamu blinks slowly. Kiyoomi can tell that it takes him a second to remember their earlier conversation, but once it clicks, he’s quick to answer. “What’s there to pity?” 

“You know,” Kiyoomi says, because if there’s one thing worse than being pitied, it’s sounding like he’s pitying himself. 

“No, I really don’t,” Osamu says. He’s smiling in a way that lets him know that he _does_ know what Kiyoomi means, and Kiyoomi lets himself mirror the smile.

** Miya Osamu  **

**> wyd**

Kiyoomi doesn’t mean to make a ritual of it. It just kind of happens. 

Osamu sends him an invitation ( _wyd?),_ lets him into his giantass apartment, and Kiyoomi watches him wash his hands for the recommended twenty seconds. They make small talk as Osamu carefully prepares ochazuke, onigiri, oyakodon. They eat together, brush their legs together, and never talk about it. 

He finds himself opening up to Osamu in a way high school Kiyoomi never thought himself possible. He likes the way Osamu treats him, like he isn’t shocked and confused that Kiyoomi has an actual personality. And when Kiyoomi is an asshole, because that’s something no amount of tenderly prepared onigiri can change, Osamu just laughs. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t mean to make a ritual of it, but this ceremony is performed with almost religious precision. 

** Miya Osamu  **

**> could you come over tonight?**

**> i need to talk to you about something**

**Okay <**

Kiyoomi can instantly tell something is different when Osamu lets him in this time. He’s quiet, and not in an Osamu way. Kiyoomi can tell he’s thinking about something. 

He must have finally realized that Kiyoomi’s good looks are no match for his shitty attitude. _You’re hot,_ Osamu had said once upon a time. _But you’re also picky and annoying and difficult and mean and_

Osamu is quiet as he washes his hands, quiet as he moulds onigiri (umeboshi for Kiyoomi, fatty tuna for himself), quiet as he brings the plate over to the counter, quiet as he says _itadakimasu,_ quiet as they each take a first bite. 

It’s good. It’s always good, even with the anxious thrum beneath Kiyoomi’s skin. 

It’s quiet as they eat, which is normal. Osamu doesn’t wink at him over his onigiri, which is not normal. Kiyoomi doesn’t roll his eyes fondly, which should be normal, but it isn’t. When did he start doing things fondly? Oh God. 

“Y’know,” Osamu says, and the sudden break in the silence nearly makes Kiyoomi jump. “As much as I like cookin’ for you, I don’t invite you here everyday just to make ochazuke.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi says. 

“I like what we have goin’ on,” Osamu says. “I just want somethin’ more, ‘n I thought you might too.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi says again. He looks down at their onigiri. They’re sharing a plate. He wonders why it took so long for them to have this conversation. “I do.” 

“Okay,” Osamu is smiling. “Okay.” He shifts his ankle so it rubs against Kiyoomi’s, and something clicks. The night finally starts to feel normal. 

“I’m not sure why I didn’t say something sooner,” Kiyoomi says. “I-” He clamps his lips shut, wonders why it’s so hard for him to do what Osamu does- to want something, to ask for it, to take it. 

The air is charged. Kiyoomi knows it’s his turn for a confession. He stands. “Do you remember when you asked me what I like about you?” 

Osamu nods, rising slowly with a questioning look. 

“I like that you know what you want,” Kiyoomi says. “I like that you take it.” 

“Huh,” Osamu says, and then he’s tangling his fingers in Kiyoomi’s hair, and they’re kissing. 

They’re kissing, and there’s bits of rice stuck in Osamu’s teeth which should gross Kiyoomi out, but it _doesn’t_ because Osamu made that rice for him, and he wants it so bad that it hurts. 

“You like when I take what I want?” Osamu murmurs wet against his mouth. “Do you like that, Kiyoomi?” 

Kiyoomi nods frantically, fingers gripping the fabric of Osamu’s t-shirt, always a little too tight around the shoulders. 

“Yeah?” Osamu pants. “And what do _you_ want?” 

It catches Kiyoomi off guard. “I… I want you to-“

“No, tell me what you _want_ , Kiyoomi.” 

Kiyoomi tries to pull something coherent out of his brain that’s currently spinning out of control with the way Osamu’s mouth runs wet across his cheek. 

“I want to be satisfied,” is what he settles for.

He feels Osamu’s mouth quirk where it’s pressed against him. “Yeah?”

“Not like that,” Kiyoomi mutters, feeling the tips of his ears twinge pink. “I meant in volleyball.”

Osamu’s curious hum rumbles against his skin. “What do ya mean?”

“My career could end at any time,” Kiyoomi says. “I want to feel satisfied when it does.” 

Osamu fits Kiyoomi’s jaw in a large hand, tilts his head to press a hard kiss against his mouth. “What else?”

“I want,” Kiyoomi begins, cut off with a gasp as Osamu’s lips trail hot down his neck, “I want people to stop treating me like I’m- I’m a timebomb. Or a doll.” 

Osamu bites him, hard on the shoulder. “What else?”

“You,” Kiyoomi gasps, and the revelation has his knees buckling. Osamu is there to hold him up. “I want you.” 

Osamu slips calloused fingers into his mouth as his own runs across Kiyoomi’s skin. Careful fingers that slide soap against palms and under fingernails. Careful fingers that mould rice and shred salmon. Careful fingers that push down against Kiyoomi’s tongue. “You have me Kiyoomi,” Osamu says. “Anythin’ ya want. You can have it.”

Kiyoomi scratches at the back of his neck, shakes his head so Osamu’s fingers slip out. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know,” Osamu says, pulling back. His arms still hold Kiyoomi against the counter. “Quittin’ volleyball was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it’s what I wanted. It’s hard, but it’s worth it.”

“That’s not how it works for me,” Kiyoomi mumbles. “I have to prepare for the worst. I can’t just _go for it_. That’s why I didn’t go pro right away. I needed something just in case.”

Osamu frowns, and this time when he leans in, the kiss is short, sweet, comforting, grounding. “Nothin’ wrong with that,” he says. “But if ya want this, I want it to be easy for you. I’ll make it easy for you.” 

Kiyoomi nods, runs a hand along Osamu’s arm. “I do,” he says, and it's reminiscent of his confession in the kitchen moments ago. He says it again, and once more for good measure, before Osamu is crashing their mouths together again. 

** Miya Osamu  **

**> thanks for last night **

**> can’t stop thinking about you**

**Me too. <**

**> what time does ur practice end? **

**12:00 <**

**Why? <**  
  


When practice ends, he almost doesn’t notice the extra body standing by the door, but a man like Miya Osamu is hard to miss. He’s especially hard to miss when his teammates break into hushed whispers of, _is that Miya Atsumu why is his hair dark why is he in our gym wait isn’t there two Miyas is that the other one?_

He knows Osamu’s eyes are following his every stretch, a glint in his eyes that Kiyoomi is intimately familiar with after last night. It’s distracting, so Kiyoomi pushes himself off the floor and towards where Osamu is waiting, leaned against the wall. “What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Osamu smiles and reaches up to move a stray curl back into Kiyoomi’s mess of sweaty hair. “Just wanted to walk ya home.” 

“It’s like a ten minute walk,” Kiyoomi says, but Osamu’s smile doesn’t falter. “Fine. Wait here.”

He heads back into the locker room, feels the awed eyes of his teammates as he passes them. He showers quickly, before anyone else can, as usual. When he gets back to his locker, Sato is waiting for him. 

“Is that your boyfriend?” Sato asks. 

“I guess,” Kiyoomi says, opening his locker. 

“Huh.”

“What.”

Sato shrugs. “I just didn’t think you were like that.”

Kiyoomi starts forcefully shoving his clothes in his gym bag. “What? Gay?” 

“No, dude! I meant like- I didn’t know you dated.”

“I’m not fucking celibate,” Kiyoomi mutters as he slams his locker shut. Sato doesn’t have anything else to say, not even a _sorry._ Good. 

When he comes out of the locker room, Osamu is talking to his coach. As Kiyoomi approaches, he hears Coach saying, “Too damn bad. You two coulda ruled the pro court together.” 

Osamu agrees with a pleasant smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he herds Kiyoomi out the door. 

“What were you talking to Coach about?” Kiyoomi asks.

“He thought I was Atsumu,” Osamu says as the gym door shuts behind them. 

“Do people really still confuse you two?”

“Not really,” Osamu says. “Only people who really know volleyball.”

“Hm. Must be nice.”

“Yeah,” Osamu sighs. “I guess it is.”

It’s a nice day. Osamu’s hand swings between them, his gaze pointed towards the blue sky. Once in a while, a breeze will blow the fringe off his forehead. 

Kiyoomi rubs a thumb along his wrist. He wants to hold Osamu’s hand, make it stop swinging. “One of my teammates asked if you were my boyfriend,” he says instead. 

Osamu drops his gaze towards Kiyoomi. “Am I?” 

“Are you?” 

“I’m following your lead here, Kiyoomi,” Osamu says. 

Kiyoomi thinks for a moment. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says, “but I’m kind of an asshole.”

“Yeah, well, I’m used to assholes,” Osamu says. He frowns. “That came out wrong.”

It’s the dumbest thing Kiyoomi’s ever heard, but it punches a laugh out of him. Osamu’s eyes widen, and he wraps his arm tight around Kiyoomi, pulling him flush against his side. 

“Never heard ya laugh before,” he says, smushing a hard kiss into Kiyoomi’s temple. “Pretty.” 

Kiyoomi shoves him off, but he doesn’t stop Osamu from tangling their fingers together.

“Y’know, I meant it last night,” Osamu says. Kiyoomi gives a questioning hum, so he continues, “You can have anythin’ ya want. So if ya want this, I’m all in.”

_If you want this, I want it to be easy for you. I’ll make it easy for you._

Kiyoomi just squeezes Osamu’s hand in response. He knows it's enough of an answer. 

When Osamu drops him off at home, Kiyoomi’s phone buzzes almost seconds later. It’s a picture of two frogs, holding hands and smiling, captioned _us._ He smiles down at his phone, looks up to see Osamu a few feet away, still typing. A new message comes in. _wyd right now?_

** Kuroo Tetsurou  **

**> watching the press conference right now **

**> who is that sexy guy in the back **

**> oh that’s just me**

**> congrats sakkun hope osamu sucks your dick real hard tonight**

**> or the other way around idk what you’re into **

**I am begging you to think before you send me things <**

**Thank you though <**

“It is my great pleasure to announce the commitment of Sakusa Kiyoomi to the MSBY Black Jackals,” says Samson Foster, over the television mounted to the wall of Onigiri Miya. “We are excited to welcome him to the Jackals family.”

“Ya look cute,” Osamu says. 

“Ya look constipated,” Atsumu says. 

“I look the way I always do,” Kiyoomi says. 

“Yeah, exactly,” the twins say in unison before swinging their heads to glare at each other. 

“Do we have to watch this?” Kiyoomi sighs as Coach Foster begins to list his achievements, _four year starting player at Waseda University, named MVP at the recent Japan National Collegiate Volleyball Championship, a promising rookie for the Jackals_. “We were all there.”

“It’s not everyday ya see your boyfriend on TV, okay?” Osamu says, but he still sets down the mound of rice he’s moulding to turn it down. 

Kiyoomi watches as the press conference opens for questions. He remembers the first question, something about what his “Monster Generation” teammates remember about Kiyoomi from high school. 

Bokuto is the first one to answer, exclaiming loudly about Kiyoomi beating him for a position as a top three ace and clapping a hand on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. Kiyoomi watches himself stiffen, but Bokuto doesn’t pull away. Kiyoomi remembers the way relaxing into it felt like a breath of fresh air. 

His gaze is pulled from the television by Osamu, sliding a hand along Kiyoomi’s back and a bowl of ochazuke in front of him. The bowl is soon joined by a plate of onigiri. 

“This is too much,” Kiyoomi says, leaning back into Osamu’s palm. 

“Just have what you want. I’m sure someone’ll take the rest,” Osamu says, presses the words against his cheek. “I love you. I’m proud of you.”

Atsumu gags, Osamu shoots him the finger, his teammates laugh loudly on the television, and Kiyoomi takes a bite of umeboshi onigiri. 

He wouldn’t want it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they get married and live happily ever after <3
> 
> thank you for reading! pls join osaomi nation if u enjoyed. also come be my friend on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/fukurodarcy)
> 
> [black mental health matters](https://blackmentalhealthmatters.carrd.co/)


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